A Season on the Hill
Chapter 1:
The Locked Gate
The Bentley skidded to a halt, spraying slush and gravel against a rusted, iron-wrought gate. Elara Vance killed the engine, and in the sudden silence, the only sound was the ticking of the cooling engine and the relentless whisper of the mountain wind.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she muttered, staring through the windshield.
This was not the“charming, secluded retreat” the rental listing had promised. This was a fortress.“Havenwood,” the name was spelled out in twisted, flaking metal above the gate, looked less like a cozy cabin and more like the setting for a true-crime documentary. It perched on the crest of the snow-dusted hill, all sharp gables and dark windows, silhouetted against a bruised, twilight sky.
A blizzard was coming. The weather alert on her phone had been flashing red for the last fifty miles. She was supposed to be here for two weeks of silent, snowed-in peace to finish her latest crime novel. Now, peace felt a long way off.
She got out, the cold biting through her city-weight coat, and approached the gate. It was chained and padlocked. No key in the lockbox the email had mentioned. Just a heavy, new-looking chain.
“Perfect.”
A crunch of tires on snow made her jump. A battered, forest-green Defender pulled up behind her Bentley. A man got out, tall and broad-shouldered in a worn, waxed jacket. He had the kind of rugged, lived-in face that belonged on a park ranger or a lumberjack. His eyes, a startlingly clear blue, scanned her, the car, and the locked gate with a single, efficient sweep.
“Problem?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.
Elara’s writer’s brain immediately started profiling. Mid-thirties. Capable. Watchful eyes. Potential axe murderer. Or just a local. She decided, for now, to go with local.
“The gate’s locked. There’s no key. I’m renting the place for the holidays.” She held up her phone as if the digital confirmation could magically dissolve the chain.
The man—Liam, according the patch stitched on his jacket—nodded slowly.“Havenwood. Should’ve known.” He walked past her to the gate, giving the chain a firm tug.“New lock. That’s not Roy’s style.” Roy was the property manager.
“What does that mean?” Elara asked, a prickle of unease tracing her spine.
“Means someone didn’t want you getting in.” He turned those blue eyes on her, and they were full of a grim understanding that felt far more dangerous than the cold.“Or maybe they wanted to make sure you were stuck out here when the storm hit.”
Before she could process that, he pulled a heavy set of bolt cutters from the back of his Defender. With a few efficient snips, the chain fell away into the snow.
“I’m Liam Holt,” he said, swinging the gate open.“I own the land next door. Roy’s my uncle. He’s laid up with a broken hip. I’m… keeping an eye on things.”
He gestured for her to get back in her car.“Follow me up. I’ll get you settled. The generator’s finicky, and the pipes will freeze if you don’t know the trick.”
Gratitude warred with suspicion. He was her only option. She nodded, a tight, nervous gesture, and got back into the warmth of her car.
As she followed his Defender up the steep, winding drive, the headlights carved tunnels through the gathering dark. The house loomed larger, more imposing. One of the top-floor windows, she noticed, was already boarded up.
Liam parked and waited for her, his gaze scanning the tree line. It wasn't a casual glance. It was the look of a man assessing a threat.
He helped her carry her bags and groceries to the sprawling porch. The front door was massive, carved with intricate, almost pagan-looking symbols. As he fitted the key into the lock, he paused, his body going still.
“Elara,” he said, his voice low. He never asked her name. He just knew it.“Did Roy tell you about the last tenant? The one who rented Havenwood before you?”
The prickle on her spine became a cold dread.“No. What about them?”
He pushed the door open. The interior was dark, cold, and smelled of pine and old dust.
“They vanished,” Liam said, his words hanging in the frozen air.“Two days before Christmas. Never found a trace.”
He stepped inside, leaving her on the threshold, the writer of fictional crimes suddenly standing at the edge of a very real, very chilling mystery. The hilltop holiday had begun.
Chapter 2:
A Fire in the Hearth
